


My Beloved Was Weighed Down

by awritersdaydream



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fingering, Pain, Some mentions of blood, Spanking, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awritersdaydream/pseuds/awritersdaydream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion piece to My Fingers Laced to Crown. Part 2 of 4. Abigail is back in Hannibal's office, and he has a new lesson prepared. One, Abigail realizes, that is essential if she wants to survive. Still Pre-Releves, but around 'Buffet Froid'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Beloved Was Weighed Down

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I know it took me forever to get to this point, but I have a plan. There will be one more lesson, and then the finale. All of these lessons add up to something, so stay tuned! There is some violence in here, but hopefully not too much that will disturb. I still put a warning on to be safe. This is my first time writing a fic that involves spanking, so I'm kind of nervous. Enjoy!

She sits patiently on the long, flat, indigo chair.

Memories of the previous sessions fill her mind— _all broken breaths and trembling limbs_ —and she is itching to see what he will teach her today.

Ever since her first lesson, where she learned how to stay quiet and maintain control ( _even in the most desperate of situations_ ), her visits to Hannibal’s office have become more frequent. Dr. Bloom is aware that she goes to his office for sessions, but she does not know how often, or the length. She prefers it this way, finding that keeping secrets is the glue that holds some lives together. She would have been in college by now, had her father’s secret not been exposed.

She tries not to dwell on ‘what ifs’; they only infect the body, making the past seem useless, the present reality seem dull and the future seem grim. She has had enough obstacles twist her life, she does not need to add another.

Hannibal writes a few more notes on his paper pad and then sets down his pen directly beside it. He looks at Abigail and the directness of his eyes causes her cheeks to burn. She’s seen him plenty of times since her first lesson, but today is different.

Today she will learn something new.

Abigail straightens her posture and watches as Hannibal rises from his chair, circles the desk and then finally stands in front of her. Her heart races, though one couldn’t tell by her expression or her body. She sits perfectly still, her heart beating rapidly but her chest holding a normal rhythm. Her cheeks, though warm, are not red, and her eyes match the intensity of his. It is enough to fool even Hannibal, had he not taught her the skill himself.

She has learned, and she has learned well.

Hannibal folds his hands, the digits falling just above his belt. Abigail aches with curiosity, her mind racing with thoughts of what this new lesson could be. She hopes for something to do with touch, her legs quivering at the mere idea of Hannibal being positioned between them.

“Abigail,” he begins, “It’s time to learn something new. You have excelled at self-control, and I am confident that you can now retain it in the real world.”

His mention of the real world hits her hard in the chest. She always assumed he had a higher plan, an intricate plot that undoubtedly had a significant purpose, but she never believed that she would play real role. However, the seriousness of his tone and the slight lean in his posture tell her that she is more than just a pawn.

“However, you know we can only spend two weeks on each lesson,” he continues, “And the weeks are up.”

She nods, still trying to decipher his design. It is only after a few moments that Abigail realizes he is waiting for her to speak.

“Yes,” she replies, “I’m ready.”

“Good,” he says, “Because the next lesson is much harder than the first.”

“What is it?”

He looks her dead in the eyes. “Pain tolerance.”

Abigail’s stomach drops. _Pain tolerance?_ She thinks. Hasn’t she gone through enough of that? Hasn’t she proved herself strong enough after surviving her throat being cut? Hasn’t she earned the right to never feel pain again? Tears start to well in her eyes but she pushes them back. She has to show him that she can handle this, that she can handle whatever he gives her.

Though, she can’t help but ask: “Why?”

Hannibal sits down next to her and suddenly Abigail wishes they were practicing self-control again.

“You may be faced with a dangerous situation,” he tells her, his voice gentle and very rare for his character, “that requires you to feel extreme amounts of pain. It is imperative that you learn how to handle this pain without falling apart or worse…dying.”

Abigail gulps. Visions of her father holding her tightly against his chest, the cold knife pressing against her throat, flood her mind. One glide of the wrist and blood spurts, covering the table, the window, the floor. She can feel her eyes grow wider, the weight of Hannibal’s statement sparking fear in her mind.

“What will you do to me?”

He takes her hands in his and rubs them softly, smoothing and soothing her. “Simple spankings, not unlike the ones children sometimes receive when punished.”

“I was never,” she stumbles on the word, “ _spanked_ as a child.”

She knows Hannibal has picked up on her hesitation, and the thought bothers her. Despite her immense desire to please him, her past has an iron grip on her, scratching and clawing its way into her life.

“Abigail,” he starts, and tilts her head up so she is looking at him, “There is a very real, very possible risk of the police finding out who killed Nicholas Boyle. I told you after you dug up his body that there would be consequences, consequences that you claimed you were willing to face. The police will be looking into the body, and it is only a matter of time before you are considered a suspect. Jack Crawford has never been your ally, and I fear that this new development will only create further distrust.”

She breathes in deeply, trying to register what Hannibal is implying. Of course she would be a suspect, she’s the daughter of a serial killer. She should have known. She should have known that digging up the body of a boy who was otherwise mostly forgotten was a mistake. She just felt so trapped, so limited in her life that she needed some freedom. She believed revealing Nicholas Boyle would give her that, but she was wrong.

So was so, so wrong.

She looks up at Hannibal. She needs to do this, needs to get over her fear of pain if she wants to live. She is a _survivor_ , chose to be one when her father so mercilessly took away everything she had ever known. She refuses to succumb to another obstacle like that. Never again will she fall prey to uncontrollable situations.

After all, isn’t that what Hannibal has been trying to teach her all this time?

Abigail steadies her gaze with him, her eyes no longer wide with vulnerability, but narrowed with determination. All signs of her previous hesitation now completely vanished. “Where do we start?”

Hannibal nods in approval and her chest clicks with satisfaction.

He walks over to his desk and clears off some of his pens and papers, making half of his desk bare.

“We will start here,” he says, indicating the space he just opened, “with you learning over my desk.”

She follows his lead, planting her palms on the smooth surface. Her legs are tightly fused together as she feels him walk around her, inspecting which side he should start with. Abigail thinks of nothing but the feel of the wood beneath her hands and the warmth emanating from Hannibal’s body.

“Now,” he says, positioned at her left, “I will start with my hand.”

His mouth is dangerously close to her ear, his body hovering over her shoulders and back. It shouldn’t feel this good to have him close, especially considering the situation, but it is.

“Take a deep breath, Abigail.”

She does, though it is slightly shaky and she isn’t able reach the full capacity of her lungs. He waits until she releases and then strikes her bottom with one wave of his arm. They start off light, with every fourth smack increasing in force.

She barely feels it through her jeans, but she assumes that’s also because Hannibal is rubbing her back and ass between hits. He does this for a few minutes, switching from her left side to her right. The only pain Abigail feels is in her back, the inclined position making her sore and uncomfortable.

Suddenly, Hannibal stops his ministrations and Abigail thinks the lesson may be over. Perhaps she has passed.

“I am going to increase the pain.” He tells her, and she sees him unfasten his black belt, the snake-like accessary bursting free with every open loop. “Are you ready?”

She nods, not willing to break her commitment. She wants to laugh at her previous thought of passing his test. She should have known. She is _always_ thinking that she _should have known_.

Hannibal doesn’t wait for her to take a breath, just strikes the belt across her backside without warning, and the first whack doesn’t hurt, just surprises. She waits for him to caress her again, but nothing comes. The belt cracks across her again, but still no touch. She cannot focus on the pain so much as the loss of his hands on her body.

She doesn’t just _want_ his touch, she _craves_ it.

One more hit and, just when Abigail thinks she can’t take it anymore, his hands come down on her back and her bottom again, soothing the sensitive area. She sighs in relief and he continues his movements.

He repeats this pattern for a few more times, until she feels something altogether different.

Hannibal slaps the belt against her again, and she eagerly awaits his hands. Instead of touching her back, however, his fingers slide down the front of her body, caressing her clit through the fabric of her jeans. She gasps in surprise, but he says nothing.

The belt comes down harder, but the reward is sweet.

Hannibal alternates from smacking to stroking, sometimes lingering on the latter. Somehow, the crack of the belt no longer competes with his hand; they become fused together. He runs his long fingers up and down her slit, her jeans interfering with the pressure of his hand. A moan is on the tip of her tongue, but before she can express it, he stops.

Reaching around her front, he unclasps the button on her jeans. Goose bumps form on her skin and she waits to see what he will do next. Slowly, he glides the denim down her hips and carefully over her reddened bottom, kissing each cheek tenderly. She closes her eyes and shifts her weight, her pants slipping from each ankle.

He sets the belt down on top of his desk, his hands moving back to her ass. He inspects the area, unquestionably red, and Abigail feels something smooth on her skin. It takes her a moment to realize that it is Hannibal, his face pressed against her and his cheek rubbing the spots that he assaulted only moments ago.

This time she does moan, and the sound reverberates off the wood.

He is up in a flash, and before she has time to react, his hand strikes her already sensitive left cheek.

_Left, right, left, right, left, right…_

She grips the desk with white knuckles but relaxes once Hannibal finds her clit again. He massages the tip lightly, making her legs tremble with want. His kisses crawl up her back, landing just below her ear, while his fingers apply more pressure to her sex. She bucks her hips, her skin feeling like fire. She watches the belt slowly slither off the desk, but she is so wrapped up in her own need that she barely reacts.

As soon as the belt connects with her skin, Hannibal’s fingers sink inside of her, the mix of pain and pleasure taking over her body. His fingers slide easily in and out, and it is then that she realizes she is wet.

Her body doesn’t fear pain, it _welcomes_ it.

She has spent so many years of her life being afraid of pain, so afraid of agony and anguish, that she never dreamed she would find herself so aroused by the action. The belt rips across her skin like lightening, the sound echoing throughout the walls of his office.

 She can’t feel anything, can’t see or hear anything that isn’t Hannibal.

His fingers push deeper, reaching a spot only she herself has scarcely accessed. She whimpers with every flick of his fingers, her legs straying from their original closed position. She opens them wide and feels Hannibal place a hand on her back, weighing her down. The belt is relentless, her skin becoming numb.

She thinks of the knife against her throat, of the hunting rifle she had handled for most of her life. She thinks of the blood that splattered from her neck to the appliances lining the kitchen. She thinks of Nicholas Boyles’ eyes as she stabbed him, the blade reaching deep into his body, eviscerating his insides. She remembers the power she felt then, when her father finally let go of her body, when she plunged the knife into Nicholas Boyles’ abdomen.

Pain empowers, and Abigail plans on taking the crown.

All of her feeling is concentrated between her legs, where Hannibal is flicking his wrist rapidly, her walls tightening, her hips bucking wildly. His hand is so large that his palm hits her clit just so, the pressure not as hard she wants but the sensitivity just enough to satisfy.

She starts to feel the belt now, the lashings coming down so hard she can feel it in her knees. His strokes are furious, his palm brushing her clit and the belt bruising her skin all at once that she completely loses herself. Loses herself in this pot of pain, pleasure, and thrill so immensely that she sees white.

She comes with a cry, small, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. Her body jerks violently, her hands gripping the desk for support. Her body reels from it, her legs collapsing at the sheer power of her release.

Hannibal is there to catch her though, and carefully runs his hands over her bottom. He kisses her left shoulder and holds her, one arm wrapped around her abdomen and the other pushing back sweaty strands of hair. As soon as her breathing returns to normal, and her body is steady and solid, Hannibal let’s her go and retreats to the corner of his office. Abigail feels something sticky running down her thigh and thinks about how wet she truly was.

He returns a few seconds later with a first aid kit. He lays the belt on his desk, the accessory positioned next to her face. He opens the kit, his long fingers working quickly to tend to her bruises. He takes out some cloth and soaks it with water. He presses it against her backside, the water cooling her chafed skin. She looks over at the belt, noticing splotches of something dark covering the end. She reaches out and touches it, her fingers soon coated with warm blood. She fights a gasp.

 _How could I not have known?_ She thinks.

Hannibal takes her hand and wipes it off with some of the wet cloth and then straightens her so she is standing. She feels slightly unsteady on her feet, but Hannibal’s grip keeps her in place. He combs his fingers through her hair and draws her into his chest. She folds into his embrace, though her eyes remain wide open.

“You’ve done very well, Abigail.”

He pulls back and leads her over to the long, flat, indigo chair again, except this time he has stocked it with a fluffy pillow and a blanket. She sits down on it but immediately jumps up. He has filled the pillowcase with ice.

“You need to sit on that in order to heal.” He tells her, and she slowly sits back down.

The ice is too much for her at first, the cold causing her to tense up. Eventually, it takes over and the area numbs. Hannibal places the blanket across her lap so she does not freeze, the warm fleece bringing some heat back in her thighs, and then walks back over to his desk.

“You will need to wear loose clothing this week,” he says, his voice back to its usual formal tone, “and make sure you ice in intervals.”

“I will.” Her voice comes out cracked and she hurries to clear her throat.

“Do not engage in any exercise, the less irritation to the skin the better.” He continues, and she nods. “And as I said before—“

She looks up and sees him staring directly at her. Her pulse races and she swallows.

“—no more climbing walls, Abigail.”

A small smile forms on her lips. “I don’t think I could, even if I tried.”

He shares her smile and rips the paper from the pad. “Give this to Dr. Bloom the next time she visits. We will resume the lesson in two days.”

She should be wincing in pain at the mere thought of stepping in this office again. She should be dreading her next appointment, but she’s not. Instead, she is taking mental notes on how to calm the welts that are bubbling on her skin. She is running through ideas on how to hide her soreness from Dr. Bloom. She is thinking of which positions are acceptable for slumber.

She, like her skin, is tough, and she, like her body, will heal.

Abigail nods in obedience. The fear is gone, replaced with an aching of anticipation for what is to come. For Hannibal’s fingers, for the smoothness of the couch, for the hard wood of his desk.

She wants it all.

Two weeks later, on the last day of her second lesson, Hannibal asks her how she feels, now that the lesson is over. She thinks about the multiple lashings and various bruises on her skin, the sweet releases, the calm and collected looks she gave Dr. Bloom, the countless sweatpants she accumulated in the past weeks.

She smiles. “I don’t feel anything at all.”

“Good girl,” he replies, his eyes alight with a kind of mischief and admiration that only a truly charismatic person can express. “We’re almost there.”

A wave threatens to overwhelm, but she remains undisturbed.


End file.
